“Why does it have to be me?!” my oldest child cried out, hunched over the toilet in pain. My heart ached with empathy. My immediate internal reaction was something like, “Well, this kind of thing happens to everyone eventually.” But I quickly caught myself—because when we’re in pain, those kinds of truths don’t always help. In the thick of discomfort, logic often falls flat. Pain doesn’t want reason—it wants relief, or at the very least, to be seen. And I realized: maybe the most helpful response is somewhere in between our gut reactions and our attempts to fix things. Maybe what we need is simple, compassionate presence. A gentle middle ground. So I sat beside him and said, “It’s painful… and it will pass.” No magic fix. No denying the reality of what he was feeling. Just a moment of shared humanness and hope. As I sat with him, I couldn’t help but think about how often this happens in life—not just with stomachaches, but with heartbreak, anxiety, grief, and all the other invisible pains we carry. How often do we, or the people we love, cry out in frustration or despair:“Why me?”“Why now?”“Why this?” And how often do we scramble to respond with advice, solutions, or silver linings?“Everything happens for a reason.”“At least it’s not worse.”“You’ll get through it.” These words usually come from a place of love, but they can land wrong—too soon, too sharp, too distant. When someone is in the depths of pain, what they need most isn’t a roadmap out. They need to know they’re not alone inside it. We don’t have to fix everything. We can meet others right where they are—with presence, not pressure. “This hurts.”“I see you.”“You’re not alone in this.”“It’s hard right now.” There’s quiet power in that kind of response. A power that heals in small, steady ways. It doesn’t change the pain, but it changes the experience of carrying it. Sometimes the most healing thing we can offer ourselves and others is our presence and a quiet reminder: This is hard… and it will pass.